


We're In the Belly of the Beast

by WhyTheHandbasket



Category: Free!
Genre: AU, Gen, POV Second Person, character study kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4321557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyTheHandbasket/pseuds/WhyTheHandbasket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a teenager is hard. <br/>Being alone is hard. <br/>But sometimes, you can find people who will be there with you.<br/>In the belly of the beast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rise Up Like the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Second Person.  
> This is my first fic in this fandom, please be gentle!  
> I'm pretty sure this will be a multi-chaptered thing.  
> It's a little strange, but I like it.

You are a boy who thinks too much.

You think about things like friends and leaving, about goodbyes and loneliness. You hide these thoughts behind a wall made of bright smiles and stealth hugs, sparkling eyes and silly nicknames. Nobody expects you, the person who's the perfect physical representation of a shota, to be anything but that. You are expected to be cute, not smart. But you are smart, smarter than most, and you understand that you are not supposed to be that way. So you hide your grades from your friends and complain about how poorly you are doing, laughing all the while.

Life can be hard for a boy who thinks too much, a boy who's lost the only friends he had. When they all left, left you behind, alone, you understood. In some way you understood, you _understand_ that you weren't good enough to deserve these wonderful friends, and that's why they left. What did you have to offer them? You're just a boy with pink eyes and a wide smile who thinks too much.   

Your parents are wonderful people. At least you think they probably are, but you can't be sure. They're too busy to pay attention to you, the youngest child, the cute boy who brings home good grades and never cries. You do cry, though, you do. But you have older sisters, girls who pinch your cheeks and think that you're so very cute, and like to dress you up like a doll. You can't let them see you cry. If they see you cry, they will store that information up and bring it out at the worst possible time. They don't need any more ammunition in their war against you.

In middle school, you try so hard to be what _they_ think you are, the smiling boy with the good grades. You work hard and smile harder, laughing at jokes that aren't funny and pretending not to hear what they are saying about you. During the last year you break, and no one notices. You miss your friends, even if they don't miss you, even if they're the ones that left you behind. Your smiles are as fake as your laugh, your eyes sparkle because you're always on the verge of tears, and no one notices. Your grades stay up, and people see what they want to see, especially when it comes to blond boys with big smiles.

When high school enrollment starts, you tell your parents that you want to go to the local high school. They want you to continue to go to the private prep school you have been attending, but even though you are a broken boy who thinks too much, you can smile and sparkle for people who can't see _you_ , and you manage to convince them to let you go. You decide to attend in the off chance that you can make some friends, find some people who will see you, the smart boy who thinks too much. Although you know there's a chance that _they_ will be there, you don't dare hope, or even dwell on it, because you want it too much and you know that wishes don't usually come true for anyone, especially for broken shota boys.

The first day of school is the usual assembly. You look around, _not looking for anyone in particular_ , and don't see anyone you know. There are some first years who look like they might be interesting, might be friendly, but you are wary of people who can't see what's below the surface, who don't _try_ to see below the surface. They are often not kind, especially to boys with blond hair and big smiles who think too much. Giving into temptation, you check the shoe lockers. You find both _Nanase Haruka_ and _Tachibana Makoto_ are enrolled, but there is no _Matsuoka Rin_ , although there is a _Matsuoka Gou_. Remembering a little girl with red hair and eyes who followed Rin around, you wonder, deciding to be on the lookout. You consider putting a note in the shoe lockers for them, but you are not really sure they care that you are here. They left you before after all, and maybe you should just keep your distance.

With morning comes hope, and you think that maybe, just maybe they are the last, best hope for you to find someone who can see you, see that you are more than a shota boy with a big smile and sparkling eyes, see that you are really a broken, smart boy who thinks too much. They knew you before, didn't they? Although you are still not sure why they left you behind, and you are also not sure if they missed you anywhere near the amount you missed them or if they even missed you at all. There are two of them, and you know they didn't leave each other, were not alone, so they probably didn't miss you very much. When lunch break begins, you run. You run as fast as you can to the second year hallway, trying to catch them before they leave. On the way you knock into a girl with red hair and red eyes, and although you apologize, you don't look at her long enough to recognize her.

You race up the stairs and hear voices on the landing above you. Looking up, you see two familiar faces, older in ways that you haven't yet achieved, but still the same. Gathering your courage, you call out their names, hoping that they remember you, hoping that they look at you, hoping that they look like you mean something. They remember you, smile at you, and they ask you to join them for lunch. You don't know if they care that you're back, you don't know if they missed you, but at least they didn't turn away, didn't act like they didn't want know you. You eat lunch with them every day, not sure what they are thinking, what they see, but content for now to let the matter rest. Slowly you can feel yourself knitting back together, regaining the shape you lost in middle school. Still broken, but at least you're not still breaking.

After lunch one day Makoto pulls you aside to talk. You think that this is it; he's going to tell you that you've overstayed your welcome, that they left you behind years ago, and that they wanted you to stay lost. If this is true, you think, you are not sure that you will ever find anyone who can see you, who can love a broken boy who thinks too much.

But, he doesn't tell you that. Instead he tells you that he's sorry that he lost you, that he didn't mean to leave you behind, that life happened, not contempt, not disinterest. He hugs you, hard, and whispers into your ear that he loves you, and that he missed you very much, and is glad that you have returned to his life. This is too much for you, so you cry all over this beautiful boy who cares too much, this friend who was lost, whispering apologies and affection. After you both cry for a bit—he's emotional when it matters—he drags you out of school to the local ice cream shop for a shake and a talk.

When you arrive at the shop, Haru is already there, waiting outside for you. He doesn't say anything, this lovely boy with few words, he just walks up to you and hugs you, whispering in your ear low enough that you could hardly hear that he, too, missed you. You go inside and sit down, ordering a cup of black coffee. You would normally order a strawberry shake, but you don't really like them anymore, you drank too many of them and they remind you of a bad time, a lost time. You prefer to drink black coffee when you can, when there's no one around who expects the shota with the smile, and you think it's time to find out how your friends see you. When the drinks arrive, there is an eyebrow raise and a question, but no judgment, and your heart lifts a bit.

Makoto starts to talk. He's worried; they both are worried about you. Worried that you seem to not be yourself, worried that your smiles and your laugh are too brittle, too fake. That you seem hurt, somehow damaged. They want to know what happened, what they can do to help.

You lose the smile, lose the laugh, and let them see. Let them see the broken boy who thinks too much, who cares too much, who loves too much. They are not horrified by the sight; in fact they seem gratified, glad to see _you_. You tell them, the gentle boy who is nice and the beautiful boy who swims, you tell them everything. You tell them how you broke; you let them see what the loss of them, the loss of friends, the loss of _hope_ did to you. There is no thought of blame, there is only your truth, and that is sufficient.

You are a boy who thinks too much, a shota boy with blond hair and pink eyes, a broken boy who's in the process of being repaired, but you have friends, only two of them, but true friends who care about you, who see you, who see the broken boy who thinks too much, and you think that maybe, just maybe, that might be enough.

 

 

 


	2. May Your Efforts be Your Own

 

You are a boy who sees too much.

You see the people that you care about disappear, one by one; leaving for some other place that you can't go. It doesn't matter that you don't want to go, that's not the point. They've left. And you're alone, a quiet boy who sees too much. You see the way people look at you, the judgment that passes over their faces, the words that they speak, thinking you don't see them. But you do, and every last one of them is carved into your heart, into your mind, into you.

_Loner._

Prodigy _. Water-crazed._

 _Idiot._ Waste of Talent. _Antisocial._

 _Beautiful. On the spectrum._ Freak. _Perfect form._

You see, you hear, and you remember.

 

When you were younger, you had three good friends. One was joy and laughter, one was passion and fire, and the other was love and comfort. At some point you lost both the boy with joy and the boy with passion, and your world became much quieter, much darker. The boy with love stayed, though, but you expect he will leave you, the others did. You expect this because you are just a beautiful boy who swims, a boy who sees but doesn't say, a boy who can't tell, can't express what he is thinking, what he sees. You are just a boy whose world is joyless and dim, who doesn't know why anyone would want to stick around.

One year, one new year, you see the burning boy who dreams at the train crossing. You are overjoyed to see him, overjoyed to see the light that floods back into your world. He asks you to race, and you agree, you'd agree to anything he asked; you have missed this boy with the fiery soul more than you'd care to admit. You're so glad to be swimming with him, so glad that the water feels like it should with him in the other lane, that you fail to see, you fail to see his pain, you fail to see his fragility. You just swim, pushing all of your loneliness into your stroke, into your race, trying to make him see how you feel, trying to make him feel how happy you are to be swimming next to him. You are the first one to the block, the first to touch the wall, but you don't care; that never mattered to you, that never mattered to the pair of you, you swam for the joy of swimming with a friend who warmed the water with his fire, who made you burn with his passion.

He lost, and he broke. You saw him break; you watched in horror as he shattered, you watched and could do nothing. He wouldn't let you help, wouldn't let you in, walked away. You watched him walk away, watched him deny and refuse every bit of you, renounce every bit of the water that bound you together, disappearing into the cold of the midwinter day. Seeing him walk away broke you. The guilt you feel for not seeing, for not seeing his pain, for not seeing his hurt, even though you are _the boy who sees_ , is overwhelming. You don't see any way out of this trap, this darkness, this pain. You're not sure this isn't where you belong, though, in this dark place, alone. It’s your fault that he fractured, your fault he disintegrated.  Withdrawing even further from the world, you quit swimming, quit the water and the team and you quit the boy who loves and comforts, even though he never quits you.

Little by little, you start to _see_ the boy who cares again, and you see that he, too, is cracking. You try, you try so hard to keep him together, keep him safe, but you're a broken boy who sees too much and doesn't talk enough, so how can you really help him? You're there when the pressure to be the perfect son and brother weighs him down, bends him in half, tempting him to do something irreversible, something that will stop the pain, ease the pressure, remove the weight. You see what he's doing, you know where he's going, and you are able, this one time, to say what you need to say, to show what you need to show, to be for him what he needs right then and stop him from leaving, stop him from making you watch someone else walk away.

Together, you and the cracked boy with the beautiful smile begin to mend. You help each other, talk to each other, see each other. As time passes, you realize that you are slowly coming out of the dark, slowly figuring out that even boys who see can't be expected to see everything. You watch the boy who cares carefully, wanting to make sure that he never gets close to breaking, close to _leaving_ again.

 

At the beginning of your second year in high school, you and the boy who cares, Makoto, your friend who you see, who you watch, are climbing the stairs to the roof where you always eat lunch. You hear a voice, see a face that you haven't seen for a long time, it's _Nagisa_ , the joyful boy, the boy you lost so long ago. You are so happy to see him again, to find him again, but you're also wary, remembering the fiery boy that you ruined and how you never want to do that to anyone again. You begin meeting him for lunch, eating lunch with him daily, the three of you, and you think, you hope, that laughter and joy may be returning to your world.

But the joyful boy who returned is not the same as the one who left, and you wonder why that is, what had caused the change. You are the boy who sees, so you watch, you observe, you see. What you see makes your chest ache, makes your eyes water. The beautiful boy who laughs is broken too, something happened and you see that he's now a boy of fake laughter and forced smiles, no hope or joy left, a broken boy who fools the world. He doesn't fool you, though, nor does he fool the caring boy, and together you decide to help fix him, help repair the breaks, help him to regain joy, to regain _hope_ , those things that he's given to the world in so many ways are the very things you want to return to him.

You see the tentativeness in his approach, the lack of surety in the way he interacts with you, like he's not certain that he's welcome, unsure that he's wanted, doubtful that he was missed. You know he needs someone to tell him that his fears are ungrounded, that he is welcome, he is wanted, and he was missed tremendously, but you know you are a broken boy who speaks little and are not the best person for the job. The boy who cares, though, he has a voice that rings out with conviction and love, and he can do it, take care of it. So you make a plan, together.

You go to the ice cream shop to wait for your friends to come, hoping that you are doing the right thing, hoping that you don't break the already broken. Nervously you watch them approach, seeing, trying to see everything. Body language and facial expressions tell you that everything is fine, that the caring boy was able to say what was needed; the red eyes tell you that what was said was believed, at least for now. You know how doubt is, and you expect it to creep back into the joyful boy's heart regularly, but you also know how to fight it, how to combat it, how to defeat it. You are so relieved to see the pair that you do what you didn't think you could, you hug the boy who sparkled, hug him tight enough that he had to know you meant it, and whispered in his ear how much you'd missed him.

Nagisa orders a black coffee. You are not surprised; you raise an eyebrow in inquiry, just to verify that that is, indeed, what he ordered. He did, and you are not surprised. You know that this boy is much more than the shota everyone thinks he is, that he thinks too much, knows too much, feels too much. Makoto asks the question, and the boy who smiles disappears, allowing you to see, gifting you with the truth. You see the broken boy who worries too much, the boy who thinks that he's not good enough to have friends, not good enough to be happy, the boy who hides behind the laughter and the sparkles. It makes you sad, and it makes you feel regretful that your leaving caused some of this pain. You are more than happy, though, that he was willing to let you see, let you know what was behind the masks.

Listening to his story, you understand that he's willing to mend, wants to fix himself, that he just needs someone who will be there for him, someone to lean on, that he doesn't have to pretend around. Both you and Makoto offer to do that for him, promise to be there for the broken boy who thinks too much. You realize during this conversation how very lucky you are that you have the caring boy in your life, that he never left. If he had, you don't think you would have been able to repair your cracks on your own.

 

You make an effort, working harder than you ever have, to make sure both of your beautiful, damaged boys are mending. You talk more, you watch constantly, you ask and you see. In time it will become routine, but for now it is a chore, but one well worth doing. The shining boy hears a story and brings it to both of you, full of smiles and ideas. The tale concerns a place that was instrumental, even elemental, in the lives of all three of you. The local swim club, the place of both great joy and greater devastation, is being torn down. You have never told anyone about that last meeting with the fiery boy, that last race that caused so much damage. You don’t know if you ever will be able to speak about it, you don’t think about it, you can’t afford to dwell on it. The brilliant boy wants to go and retrieve the trophy you buried there long ago, when you were a quartet, when there was joy and passion, love and peace.

That night you go to the building, the three who are left, to rescue the reminder of a better time, an earlier triumph. Wandering through the building, you discover that it’s not completely deserted, that there is another visitor. You see, you recognize the boy of fire and you watch as he burns everyone in his path. You can see that he’s still broken, that he’s tried to glue himself together, tried to cauterize the wounds with his fire and passion turned inward. It hasn’t worked, you know it doesn’t work; you tried the same thing, only using ice and cold rather than heat and fire. You can’t heal yourself by hurting yourself. That’s a lesson you learned the hard way.

The fire, the heat, seduce you and you find yourself responding to the challenge, feel your blood stirring, feel like you’re waking up after a long nap. The boy who burns has always been the one who could push you to do things, who could provoke you and prod you to act. You find yourself on the starting block before you register what’s happening, preparing to dive into an empty swimming pool. Disappointment blooms, you had hoped that being in the same water, swimming on the same path might help the burning boy find the validation he needs, that will allow him to move on and become the boy of passion and fire his younger self promised.

You watch him walk away for a second time, once again feeling the sting of repudiation. This time, you don’t break; you know that you’re stronger than that, that he’s the fragile one despite his fire and bluster. You look at your friends, these strong boys who stand with you, and you think that you want to swim on a team. For the first time in a long time you want to swim with someone; you want to swim with your friends. And maybe someday, if you find the words, if your friends find a way, you will find that the fire has returned to your world permanently.

Until then, you’re a broken boy who sees, a boy who speaks too little, stares too much; a beautiful boy who swims, who swims with his friends, who swims for the team. And you are content.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this. 
> 
> Please, let me know what you think below. 
> 
> Or find me on tumblr @ whythehandbasket


	3. You've Got a Lot of Heart

 

 

You are a boy who cares too much.

You care what people say, what they think, what they believe. Words fly like birds, cut like daggers, no matter what some long dead philosopher may proclaim. Words wound a boy who cares too much, who thinks that everyone should like him or else he's defective, a boy who goes out of his way care for others, but is never taken care of himself, never cares for himself.

When you were five, you got your first pair of glasses. Putting them on, you were amazed at what you could see, what things looked like. That was when you started to care about beauty, when you first understood the definition of beautiful, started to be enthralled by the beautiful things you could see. But you knew you were not beautiful, you had glasses and weird blue hair, you were all skin and bones, a not-beautiful boy who cares too much, cares about things too much. You don't know why you care what others think, why you care how you look, why you care that you aren't loveable. But you do. You do care.

You decide early on that it's a good thing you're smart, because you look smart, with your bony elbows and thick glasses, messy hair and nerdy laugh. If you're smart, people don't always notice how you look, and that is a blessing for the self-conscious boy who cares so much about what others think. You do well in your schoolwork, burying yourself in books so you can shut out the world that is so hard on a boy that knows how much words matter.  

You also care too much about others period, full stop. You worry that they're not taking care of themselves, care about their problems, try to help them with their issues. And you wonder why these people who you've cared for don't care back, don't try to see you, try to reach beyond the megane to see you, to see that the boy who cares just wants to be cared for.

You learn to hide that side of you, the side that makes people uncomfortable, the side that frets over friends and dwells on what people say. You begin to hide behind the mask of the nerd, behind the glasses and the brain. If you're behind there, they can't see you, so what they say doesn't matter as much because they are not talking about _you_ anymore. At least that's what you tell yourself, but you really aren't good at self-deceit, and all those words are stored, kept, hoarded to be brought out at the best of times and at the worst of times.

When you're feeling good about something, about yourself, they play in your mind, in your soul, removing any chance that you'd really feel good about yourself, what's there to feel good about when people think _that_ about you? When it's obvious that they're right, because why else would they say something like that? At those times you realize that you are only worth as much as your brain can do, and you, your personality, your soul and spirit, are neither wanted nor needed. Nobody wants to know a smart boy who cares.

When you're feeling bad about something, when you've made a mistake, misspoken, or even thought you may have misspoken, those stored words play in your mind as well. Thoughts about what you are, and questions about why you are so, so stupid as to think that you matter, why you would think that you are somehow important. You're only as good as your last test score, as your last witty remark or in depth explanation.

There is no place in this world for someone like you, so you drown those voices in words, in reading and learning and studying, in the nights you lie in bed and wonder why you even bother, in the days you eat alone, nose in a book, carefully not thinking. But there are times when they speak too loudly, times when you are in the bath and you contemplate, carefully not looking at the razor sitting on the side of the tub, when you deliberately walk down the middle of the bridge on your way home. You are pretty sure you could never do such a thing, you do care about people and you suspect that would hurt someone you care about, but you can't help but wonder—if you could accomplish this and make it look like an accident, wouldn't the world be a better place? Those days aren't often, but they are part of what make you, part of you that is the hidden part, the part that cares too much, that thinks more than is wise.

Sometimes you wish, you wonder what it would be like to not care, not to store up the words, to only keep the good ones, only remember the praise. To have the self confidence to put yourself out there, to let people see you and not hide. You're not sure where that confidence would come from or why it is that you don't have it. You're not stupid, in fact you're the opposite, but you just don't get this, don't get putting yourself on display for judgment, don't understand not caring. So you don't. You hide and you second guess everything you say and you try, oh how hard you try, you try to not care. But that never works, your brain betrays you, your brain won't allow you to be that person you wish you could be. Instead you're just the brilliant boy who cares too much, who's hidden himself away behind the mask of an unemotional genius, unusually obsessed with beauty.

Entering high school, you begin with all your walls firmly in place. There will be no slipups here, no chance for anyone to say something that will lodge itself in your brain, no chance to add to that list in your head. Exercise is important, you know this, your brain tells you this, so you decide to join an athletic club. A couple of years ago you were walking to the library when you passed an electronics store, and you saw an Olympic event on a television in the window. You were immediately taken by the beauty inherent in a body soaring up, up into the air, over a bar, only to fall back to the ground. The trajectory and momentum was locked in your brain, and you checked out every book you could find on pole vaulting that summer, reading them all and committing to memory every calculation, every theory. So, when it came time to choose a club, you didn't hesitate. Track was everything you wanted, you knew all the calculations, you had the theory down, and you were ready for the challenge.

It was harder than you thought, but you persevered. The coach told you to stop thinking so much, but you had no earthly idea how to shut off your brain, you honestly couldn't do that. If you could, you'd have done it years ago, shutting off the brain sounds wonderful to you, like some magical place that only lucky people can visit. You're not lucky, nor are you magical. You are just a boy who cares about beauty, who cares about things, who cares about words, who cares too much.

The boy who shines bursts into your life like a tornado, the embodiment of everything you ever wished you were. Self confident and fearless, he forces his way into your life, refusing to be cowed by your brilliance, refusing to be deterred by your consistent rebuffs. You surrender to him, you really don't have any choice, you surrender yourself to the boy with the sweet face, and you wonder. You wonder if he hears what it is people say, if he knows what it is that they're saying about him, and how it is that he doesn't let it bother him. Nagisa, a beautiful name for an equally beautiful boy. You get to know him, you watch him, fascinated by him, curious about him. As you watch, you see that he too is hiding. You realize that he's smart, probably as smart as you, but like you he's trapped, trapped in the box society has built for those that are blond and small, those that are beautiful. That makes him even more beautiful to you. You want to understand him; you want him to understand you.

He asks you to change clubs, this boy who's stuck, this boy who swims. You don't know anything about swimming, and you refuse. You're committed to track, and even though it's not quite what you thought it would be, even though you can't seem to get it right, your calculations are not having the desired effect, you are committed. He is persistent, this boy who shines, and he convinces you to attend one practice. You agree, fearing that you will regret going, but he's become someone you care about, and you are unable to refuse to help, unable to deny him the help he needs.

That day becomes both one of the best and one of the worst days of your life. You end up being forced to swim, even though you don't know anything about it, humiliating yourself in front of strangers as well as the brilliant boy and his friends, the quiet boy and the boy whose eyes are kind. The voices in your head are ringing, singing with criticism and smug knowledge, when you see something so captivating, so beautiful, that you forget to think. The quiet boy, the boy who watches everything, is swimming. He's swimming, but that's not what he's really doing. He's talking, reveling, revealing, in the water. The joy he feels moving through the pool is evident, the reverence he has for the water, for the act of swimming is clear in every stroke. You don't think you've ever seen anything so beautiful in your life. You watch him, and your mind races, you wonder if you could ever do that, could ever feel that way. You wonder if a boy who cares too much could ever show that to the water, if caring would help you be _that_ in the water.

The next day you switch clubs. Swimming is not natural for you, doesn't come easily to you. You read everything you can, buy all the books and learn all the theory. You have yet to learn how to turn off your brain and just do, and that seems to be the problem. You find, however, that as frustrating as this inability is, you really don't mind so much. You've made some friends, these teammates of yours, and they all are people you've come to care about, to care for. You think that maybe they'd not mind if you cared for them, that maybe they care for you, maybe you can show them and maybe you won't hear the words, they won't say the words that destroy, won't have to add them to your collection.

One day at lunch, it's just you and the shining boy, the others had a class project to work on, and you take the opportunity to drop your walls completely, to show this boy who's become so important to you who you are, what you are. You've agonized over this for days, weeks, wondering if you were being smart, if the risk was worth the rewards, and it's a little anticlimactic when you hear him say, "Oh, there you are, Rei! I wondered when you'd let me see you. Please don't hide from me, and I won't hide either." But you do hide; you both hide, because the world is not a kind place for those who don't conform to expectations, to those who think too much, to those who care too much. It's in the quiet times, though, when you are doing homework together or walking home together, that the walls thin to nothing, that you find solace and belonging, when you find peace, when you are able to shut the voices off.

The next person you allow to see is the quiet boy, the boy who swims like a prayer. He approaches you one day at practice, when the constant failure is weighing you down, when the voices are mocking you for even trying. He's clearly trying to help you, the beautiful boy, but he's not speaking to your brain, he's trying to get into your heart. You don't know how to access that, how to internalize what he's telling you. Your eyes meet, and you realize that he's seeing you. He sees you, not your walls, not your shields. You. In return, you're given the ability to see him, you discover that he sees everything, maybe too much, and that he hides even more behind a mask of indifference and stoicism, and that he, too has people he cares about, people he watches, people he watches out for. You find, to your surprise, that you are on that list, that he cares about you, you are not just a body to fill a roster. You also discover that he's got people that he can't help, that he wants so badly to assist, but they've rejected him, and the broken pieces of that pain are still mending. Maybe you can help him, you're a smart boy who cares, and you think that might be enough.

Your heart cracks open just a little, just enough to let his words in, just enough to allow you to understand what it is that he meant. Phrases like 'just don't think' and 'do what you want, the water doesn't mind' start to resonate, and you understand what it is to swim, what it is to not think, what it is to feel the water. You swim.

You swim your stroke, you swim.

You've found a place to be, a team to be on, and some friends to care for. There's nothing more beautiful to you in this world, nothing better in this world for a smart boy who cares too much.

You've found your place.  

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this.
> 
> Please, let me know what you think below.
> 
> Or find me on tumblr @ whythehandbasket


	4. Nobody Knows What Lies Ahead

You are a boy who knows too much.

You know that life is short, that it can be gone in an instant, in the breaking of a wave or the flutter of a scarf. You know that it is not permanent and that nothing lives forever, nothing lives longer than its allotted time, and that those that do are monsters and zombies, outcasts, pariah. Sometimes you know that's you.

When you were young you had a friend, he was brave and beautiful, and you loved him with all of your heart, the beautiful brave boy who held your hand and kept you safe. You know you're neither beautiful nor brave, you're a scaredy cat, you run away, you are afraid. But you also know that he will help, he will protect, he always has done so.

You know, though, that he won't, always.

You also have another friend, an adult who talked to you like an adult, someone you know is big and strong and brave. He buys you goldfish and teaches you to tie knots and the best way to bait a hook; he shows you around his boat and shows you how to clean a fish and how to clean yourself when you're done with cleaning the fish. You know he's been a fisherman most of his life, and you know he's a good one, he's a smart one, he's a brave one. But you also learn, and so now you know, that none of that matters, that you can be smart and brave, big and strong, and it doesn't matter if the ocean, the water, decides that it wants you. You are not surprised when the water takes the goldfish, too, even though that's where they live, that's the thing that's supposed to keep them alive. Sometimes you wonder if that's what's going to happen to you, if the air that protects you is going to kill you as well. If it happened to the fish, why couldn't it happen to you? You've lost your friend and your fish to the water, and you know that the water can take anyone it wants, especially little boys who are not brave nor strong.

As the years go by, you get stronger, but not really braver, at least not in ways you recognize or acknowledge. You know you are still weak, still fearful, still lesser. One day you find out that there is a swim club that you can join and knowing how much the beautiful boy loves to swim, you convince him to join with you, hiding from him your fear of the water, masking your weakness for his sake. Together you learn different strokes; you experiment with movement and kicks, with hand position and dives. The boy who loves to swim sticks to his preferred stroke, the one that makes him cut through the water like it's air, like it's his natural habitat, like it's where he belongs. You try not to think of that, though, because you know how the water likes to claim its own, how it likes to take what it wants and gives nothing back in exchange. You learn a new stroke, the back stroke, a stroke that allows you to swim facing the air, facing the sky, where you don't have to face the water, face the fear, face your own inadequacies. You have good form, good muscles, good speed, and you know that you can perform this stroke better than any of the others you have learned.

You swim. You swim your stroke. You swim your stroke with your friend. You swim your stroke with all three of your friends, and you win. But in winning you know you're losing, and you do. First one friend; the boy of fire, the one who burns through life, leaves on an adventure far away, across the water. Then two friends, the shining boy, the boy who is a joy, is gone as well. Soon it's just you and the beautiful boy, like before. But it's not like before, because now you know what it is to have friends, to have a team, to have people you can depend on, just like you are depended upon. You wish for this again, but you are a boy who knows, and you know that wishes are futile.

Your third friend, your best friend, the boy who swims and doesn't say much, the boy who protects, also leaves. It's the middle of winter, the coldest month, and you know that he was already injured from the loss of friends. You see the boy of water freeze, turn into a boy of ice, cold and alone. You know that ice is brittle, and you wonder if the brittle ice can break and kill as easily as water. You suspect so, although you don't want to know for sure, you already know too much.

The missing boy still walks to school, he still eats too much fish, but you know he is gone. He stops swimming, and he stops talking, stops seeing what's around him, stops caring about what happens. He is gone somewhere you can't follow, you can't see, you can't know. All you know is that you are alone, that you are left behind, that he is no longer there to protect you. You knew this was bound to happen, but you had hoped it would be when you were an adult, when you could protect yourself. But you're not, you are just a boy who knows that everything ends, everything dies, everything leaves, no matter how hard you try, no matter how hard you cling, no matter how hard you care.

You have never had someone leave but still be there, and you are scared that the ice will take him forever; he's so frozen, so gone. Having had no experience to fall back on, you just keep doing what you know to do, you pick him up for school and you eat lunch and you talk. But you know he's not there, not listening. And this breaks you a little, puts cracks through you, little fissures like those caused by water freezing, those caused by ice. Those cracks are widened when you know that your fear is keeping you from meeting your responsibilities, when your self-loathing is all that you can think about, and you wonder if it wouldn't be better for you to surrender to the water, voluntarily surrender yourself to the water, drowning all of those doubts and fears. You know that there is nobody who sees what you are, nobody who knows what you are doing, as you find yourself entering the water, walking into the depths of the ocean, surrendering to the pull of the tide.

But you are wrong. The frozen boy, he sees you, sees you break. He finds you before you can join the sea, and tells you that you matter, that he does see you and you are important, even if you do have fears and worries. You leave the water, leave that escape alone, promising never to pursue it again. You know you won't, you know that you will keep your word to the gone boy who tries to come back for you, is still trying to protect you. He finds his way back, he lets you know that he is broken as well, and you bandage him up as he bandages you. Together you start to heal, start to become what you once were. You know, though, that such things are fleeting, and you hope that whatever comes next doesn't cause more damage.     

The next thing to happen, though, is not a bad thing. One of the friends, the shining friend who loves, returns to your life. He's attending your high school, a year below you, and you ask him to join you and the brave boy when you eat lunch, you both start spending time with him. He's not the same joyful boy who left, though, and you know that something happened, you know that he's not the same, that Nagisa has somehow been hurt, injured, broken. You know this because you recognize the symptoms; you know the actions and words that hide the pain. You speak with the beautiful boy about this, and he sees the same thing you do. Together you formulate a plan, a chance to maybe help him, to make him see that he's not alone.

One day at lunch, you pull him to one side, this broken boy who brings joy, and you tell him. You tell him that you love him; you tell him how much you've missed him. You tell him that you are sorry that you lost him, and so glad he's back in your life. You hug and you hold and you cry, knowing that this is something this beautiful boy needs to see to believe.

Taking him to the café, you meet with the other broken one, the quiet one. You know he's not one for shows of emotion, you know this about him, and so you offer to meet up with him after you talk with the boy who was lost. You also know that just because he doesn't show it, doesn't mean he doesn't feel it, and you know that he does feel, may feel more than anyone you know. So it's not a surprise, but it is a source of joy, when you see the quiet boy pull the shining boy into a hard hug and whisper something into his ear, something that brings a real smile to his face and tears to his eyes, to both pair of eyes.

Sitting with the shining boy, who is still a mystery, who orders black coffee rather than what you expected, you speak. You tell him that you see him, that you worry about him, that you love him even though he is broken. He responds by allowing you to see his brokenness, see beyond the mask of the shota, the bubbly one without a care. He allows you to know what he feels, what he sees, what he thinks. You know the pain of loss that he felt, and you feel a fleeting guilt for your part in it, but mostly you are so grateful, so gratified to see this, to be allowed to know him. You offer to help, both of you decide to help, to support, to heal, and to accept.    

Now two is back to three, and you are content. You hope and pray, resolve and determine to do whatever it takes to keep them from leaving again, from disappearing again, even though you know that you have no control, no say in such things. The boy who shines tells you about the old swim club, drags you to see it, to regain the thing that you all left there.

You learn there are two things in the old club that you left there, that the fiery boy is back, that he's still burning, still bright, but he's burning with pain and rage, destroying himself and everyone else he can touch. You know how much the quiet boy missed him, how much his leaving contributed to his ice, and you watch carefully, wanting to protect, wanting to shield. You know that fire melts ice, but if it's too hot, the water evaporates, leaving nothing but vapor. Watching the boy who swims, you see that although he rises to the challenge flung at him by the burning boy, he is ok, he is neither iced over nor vapor, his cracks are still bound up and healing.

Not unexpectedly, you also want to bask in the angry boy's fire, feel him warm you like he did before. You know he doesn't see you, doesn't even look at you, all his focus is on the beautiful boy, but still, you know the pain and the ache and the burn that he's feeling and you want to soothe, want to heal, want to fix.  But you don't know how, you can't get close enough to find out how without getting singed. So, you allow him to leave, knowing that you will continue to try, continue to call, continue to care, hoping he'll let you help before the fire consumes him completely. You can’t not try, you know what’s wrong and you know what can happen to boys who burn too brightly, who don’t allow themselves a chance to heal and rest.

The joyful boy had the idea to start a swim team, he knows the quiet boy would love to swim, and he also knows that if you swim together, great things can happen. You also know that bad things can happen, everybody left after the last time you swam together, but you are willing to try, willing to lead, willing to serve. You hope, even though you know better than to hope, that this will reach the burning boy, that you three swimming together will somehow help him find his way. It’s a vain hope, one you know better than to hope, but it sticks around anyway, and using that hope as impetus, you let the fiery boy know that you are all swimming again.

A swim team needs four, and you are just three, but the boy who shines finds a boy to join you, a boy who tries, a boy who cares, a beautiful boy with blue hair. He can’t swim, but he can try, and he tries hard. You admire him, the beautiful boy, for his tenacity and his spirit. You don’t know him well, but you’d like to see what he is, who he is. You know that he’s another lost soul, another person locked away, because you know how to recognize these things. One day, after he’s tried to learn to swim and failed, when you know he’s on the edge of despair, you send the quiet boy who swims to talk to him. You know that they’re different, that they see the water and life differently, but you know they can help each other, and if they are willing to open up, they can know each other. Somehow, someway, the boy who swims reaches the boy of beauty, and he learns what it is to let go, what it is to swim, what it means to swim.

You now have a swim team that is dependent on you, you who is a boy who knows too much and can do little about any of it. You know that you all need practice, so when the bubbly boy suggests a swim camp, you know it’s your job to figure out how to make it happen. The camp that you decide upon is on a group of islands, you plan to swim the short distance between islands in order to condition your bodies. You know that only the quiet boy knows your fear, only the boy who swims knows your shame, your fear of the water; it is something he figured out a long time ago. He worries about you, and questions, but he accepts your assertion that you are fine. You know you are not, but you are determined to not allow this stupidity to ruin anything, to come between your team and what it needs, to change your behavior. You know you will be fine in the daytime, swimming with friends, switching to your back if you need a break.

The first day goes as planned, but in the middle of the night a storm blows in. You wake to the sound of wind and water, alone in your tent. Realizing that the other sleeping bag is empty, you go out to see where the butterfly boy could be. It’s hard to see in the rain, and you know he could be anywhere, the storm is blowing hard. You hear a faint voice and you head towards the water. You know that you are not willing to give anyone up to the water; you know too many who have been lost that way. You also know that the water takes what the water wants, and you know you can’t do much about that. But you refuse to give up easily. You swim towards the boy, stroke steady, breathing even. In the next flash of lightning, you see him, you see the waves crashing, you see the water and you know. You know that the water is going to claim him, that the water is going to claim you, you know that both of you are going to become nothing more than words carved on a rock, property of the water. That knowledge makes you unable to move, unable to defeat the water, that knowledge is a self-fulfilling prophecy. The last thing you know is that you failed, you know that you have been claimed by the water, you know that you are where you were longtime fated to end.

To your surprise, you wake up. You see the quiet boy looking carefully at you, face pale and eyes wide. You know he’s scared, you know that you were gone, that the water took you, but he somehow took you back from the water, returned you to the air. Letting him know that you are fine, you ask about the beautiful boy, and he tells you that the boy who shines went to save him. You know that you now belong to the water, that you are now on borrowed time, but you tell him everything is okay, that you’re okay.

You look up to see the other two coming around the rocks, they’re good, the water was denied it’s sacrifice for this night, and you think that maybe the lie is truth, maybe you really are fine.

 

You are a boy who knows that things are fleeting, that friends leave, and that you are coward and a zombie, owned by the water, on loan from the water.

But you also know love and hope, joy and laughter, and the thrill of swimming with friends, being with friends.

And you think that for now, maybe, you truly are okay.    

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for indulging in my randomness. 
> 
> Find me @ whythehandbasket on tumblr if you like.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Be Still by The Killers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sc4I9MweBy4)  
> That wasn't very long, and any others probably won't either.  
> I loved writing it, though. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, I love comments.


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